Callandar looked at the decorated wash-stand and felt better.  He had forgotten all about the room, and when the knives came, in even less than the promised jiffy, he forgot everything but the varied excellences of the food before him.  The chicken was a chicken such as one dreams of.  The salads were delicious, the homemade bread and butter fresh and sweet; the ham might well cause feelings of a tender nature towards its curer!  The chocolate cake?  He thought he might try a small piece and, having tried, was willing to make the attempt on a larger scale.  The boy was a most efficient waiter, discerning one’s desires before they were expressed.  But when they got to the pie, the doctor drew up another chair at the pie side of the table and waved the waiter into it.

There was no false modesty about the boy; neither did he hold malice.  If he had felt slightly aggrieved at not having been invited earlier, he forgot it after the first mouthful and for a time there was no further conversation in number fourteen.  The doctor had temporarily discarded his theory that it is better to rise from the table feeling slightly hungry.  The boy had never had so foolish a theory to discard.  The chicken, the ham, the pie, disappeared as if conjured away.  The boy grew rounder.

“Boy,” said the doctor at last, “hadn’t you better stop?  You are ‘swelling wisibly afore my werry eyes!’”

The boy shook his head, but presently he began to have intervals when he was able to speak.

“Better plant all you can,” he advised.  “Ma says the grub here would kill a cat.  I eat at home.  Ma wouldn’t risk my stomach here.  It’s fierce.”

“But I’ll have to eat, boy.  Isn’t there another hotel?”

“Yep; two.  But you couldn’t go to them.  This here’s the only decent one.  Gave you a nice room anyway.”  He looked around admiringly.  “Going to stay long?”

“No—­that is, yes—­I don’t know!  How can I stay if I can’t eat?”

The boy picked his round white teeth thoughtfully with a pin.

“You might get board somewheres.”

This was a new idea.

“Why—­so I might!  Does Mrs. Hallard who raises chickens or Miss What’s-her-name who cures ham, keep boarders?”

“Nope.  But they’re not the only oysters in the soup—­There’s the bell!  They never give a man a minute’s peace.  Say, if you don’t really like that pie, don’t waste it—­see?  Tell you about boarding-houses later.”

Callandar had to clear the table himself.  This he did by the simple expedient of putting everything on top of everything else.  But he did not waste anything, a precaution whose value he realised that night upon returning from the dining room where he had spent some time in looking at that repast known to the Imperial as supper.  Bubble, the bell boy, found him with his mind made up.

“Boy,” he said, “you have saved my life.  But I fear I can sojourn no longer in your delightful town.  Find me the first train out in the morning.”.